There is a good chance that you would have heard about Big Bang Theory, and I don’t mean the scientific phenomenon that formed our universe, but the famous American TV series. You probably would have seen it too.
And if you have, you either loved it or hated it immensely. For some reason, there are only opposites for this one.
Either way, there is a good chance you might have come across Sheldon Cooper’s classic ‘Bazinga!’
Sheldon Cooper, a genius but socially awkward theoretical physicist, revels in his ability to pull what he calls ‘practical jokes’ on his friends by saying ‘Bazinga!’ after a false statement.
The Bazinga is supposed to be surprising the somewhat confused victim.
So why the sudden rant?
On one of the days when my willpower defeated the electromagnetic force of attraction between me and my couch (and Netflix), I stepped out on a glorious summer day with a tote bag with a book in it.
Today’s the day I will have tea and croissant, sit in a corner, and slowly sip my tea while it turns juice cold while making sure that the superpowers vested in me by the God of Klutz, I don’t spill a single drop on my book.
I envy infants/ little kids sometimes; they can wear bibs in public without being embarrassed about it. There is glory in being able to spill things and still walk around without a care in the world.
So here I am, reading away, mainly concentrating on my book, when suddenly I hear a song being played.
Now, this little joint always plays songs, and for some reason, I end up going there when they are playing The Weeknd’s latest.
But this time, it’s different. This is not your traditional song. This is a song from a faraway country that my parents call their own.
I remember it because I have seen them playing it at home. I know all the lyrics. ‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ I mumble and go back to my reading.
Five sentences down, I am distracted again—this time by the server at the cafe singing at the top of his voice.
Lo and behold!
It’s the same song.
Typically, I won’t be surprised, but I am now. This guy speaks an entirely different language, not the one the song is in. He doesn’t know what the words mean, but he doesn’t care. Not a care in the world.
I feel a sharp pang of jealousy that quickly converts into shame and regret.
I know what the words are; I know what they mean, hell! I even have all the lyrics memorized, but I wouldn’t dare to sing that in public.
And it’s not because I can’t sing, Mind you, I can; I pride myself in being a slightly better upgrade from your typical bathroom singer.
I don’t sing because, for some reason, I care about other people and what they would think about me if I did.
They would judge me to be using a language that’s alien to most here.
They would brand me a freak and look at me with pity or disgust from the corner of their eyes. Speaking to each other in hushed tones about me.
I’m not too fond of the limelight, definitely not of this kind. So I take the easy way out.
But that easy way isn’t easy anymore. This random stranger has opened my eyes to a truth I don’t want to see, and it’s a sharp jab to the soul. I am patiently waiting for him to make a mistake with the lyrics, which could be a salve to the ache I am feeling.
But No! The damned guy knows the lyrics perfectly! I hate him. I am almost tempted to ask him where he learned everything, but I stop myself.
When I have 50 more pages to finish before this edge-of-the-seat thriller ends, do I really want to spend time on small talk?
There is no clear answer, but I consider the episode a one-off, myself Bazinga’ed, and move on.